Steven Watson - Before I Go to Sleep

He looked down into my eyes. “Claire?” he said. “You remember her?”

I had forgotten that until recently—until the memory of the fireworks party, in fact—Claire had not existed to me at all. “Vaguely,” I said.

He glanced away, toward the clock on the mantelpiece.

“No,” he said. “I think she moved away. Years ago.”

I winced, as if with pain. “Are you sure?” I asked. I could not believe he was still lying to me. It seemed almost worse of him to lie about this than about everything else. This, surely, would be an easy thing to be honest about? The fact that Claire was still local would cause me no pain, might even be something that—were I to see her—would help my memory to improve. So why the dishonesty? A dark thought entered my head—the same black suspicion—but I pushed it away.

“Are you positive? Where did she go?” Tell me, I thought. It’s not too late.

“I don’t really remember,” he said. “New Zealand, I think. Or Australia.”

I felt hope slip farther away, but knew what I had to do. “You’re certain?” I said. I took a gamble. “I have this odd memory that she once told me she was thinking of moving to Barcelona for a while. Years and years ago, it must have been.” He said nothing. “You’re sure it wasn’t there?”

“You remembered that?” he said. “When?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just a feeling.”

He squeezed my hand. A consolation. “It’s probably your imagination.”

“It felt very real, though. You’re certain it wasn’t Barcelona?”

He sighed. “No. Not Barcelona. It was definitely Australia. Adelaide, I think. I’m not sure. It was a long time ago.” He shook his head. “Claire,” he said, smiling. “I haven’t thought of her for ages. Not for years and years.”

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, he was grinning at me. He looked stupid, almost. Pathetic. I wanted to slap him. “Ben,” I said, my voice little more than a whisper. “I’ve spoken to her.”

I did not know how he would react. He did nothing, almost as if I hadn’t spoken at all, but then his eyes flared.

“When?” he said. His voice was hard as glass.

I could either tell him the truth or admit that I have been writing the story of my days. “This afternoon,” I said. “She called me.”

“She called you?” he said. “How? How did she call you?”

I decided to lie. “She said you’d given her my number.”

“What number? That’s ridiculous! How could I? You’re sure it was her?”

“She said you spoke together, occasionally. Until fairly recently.”

He let go of my hand and it dropped into my lap, a dead weight. He stood up, rounding to face me. “She said what?”

“She told me that the two of you had been in contact. Up until a few years ago.”

He leaned in close. I smelled coffee on his breath. “This woman just phoned you out of the blue? You’re sure it was even her?”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, Ben!” I said. “Who else could it have been?” I smiled. I had never thought this conversation might be easy, but it seemed infused with a seriousness I did not like.

He shrugged. “You don’t know. There have been people who have tried to get hold of you, in the past. The press. Journalists. People who have read about you, and what happened, and want your side of the story, or even just to nose around and find out just how bad you really are, or see how much you’ve changed. They’ve pretended to be other people before, just to get you to talk. There are doctors. Quacks who think they can help you. Homeopathy. Alternative medicine. Even witch doctors.”

“Ben,” I said. “She was my best friend for years. I recognized her voice.” His face sagged, defeated. “You have been speaking to her, haven’t you?” I noticed that he was clenching and unclenching his right hand, balling it into a fist, releasing it. “Ben?” I said again.

He looked up. His face was red, his eyes moist. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I have spoken to Claire. She asked me to keep in touch with her, to let her know how you are. We speak every few months, just briefly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He said nothing. “Ben. Why?” Silence. “You just decided it was easier to keep her from me? To pretend she’d moved away? Is that it? Just like you pretended I’d never written a novel?”

“Chris—” he began, then, “What—”

“It’s not fair, Ben,” I said. “You have no right to keep these things to yourself. To tell me lies just because it’s easier for you. No right.”

He stood up. “Easier for me?” he said, his voice rising. “Easier for me? You think I told you that Claire lives abroad because it was easier for me? You’re wrong, Christine. Wrong. None of this is easy for me. None of it. I don’t tell you you’ve written a novel because I can’t bear to remember how much you wanted to write another, or to see the pain when you realize you never will. I told you that Claire lives abroad because I can’t stand to hear the pain in your voice when you realize that she abandoned you in that place. Left you there to rot, like all the others.” He waited for a reaction. “Did she tell you that?” he said when none came, and I thought, No, no she didn’t, and, in fact, today I read in my journal that she used to visit me all the time .

He said it again. “Did she tell you that? That she stopped visiting as soon as she realized that fifteen minutes after she left you’d forgotten she even existed? Sure, she might call up at Christmas to find out how you’re doing, but it was me who stood by you, Chris. Me who visited you every single day. Me who was there, who waited, praying for you to be well enough that I could come and take you away from there, and bring you here, to live with me, in safety. Me. I didn’t lie to you because it was easy for me. Don’t you ever make the mistake of thinking that I did. Don’t you ever!”

I remembered reading what Dr. Nash had told me. I looked him in the eye. Except you didn’t, I thought. You didn’t stand by me .

“Claire said you divorced me.”

He froze, then stepped back, as if punched. His mouth opened, then closed. It was almost comical. At last a single word escaped.

“Bitch.”

His face melted into fury. I thought he was going to hit me, but found I didn’t care.

“Did you divorce me?” I said. “Is it true?”

“Darling—”

I stood up. “Tell me,” I said. “Tell me!” We stood, opposite each other. I didn’t know what he was going to do, didn’t know what I wanted him to do. I only knew I needed him to be honest. To tell me no more lies. “I just want the truth.”

He stepped forward and fell to his knees in front of me, grasping for my hands. “Darling—”

“Did you divorce me? Is it true, Ben? Tell me!” His head dropped, then he looked up at me, his eyes wide, frightened. “Ben!” I shouted. He began to cry. “Ben. She told me about Adam, too. She told me we had a son. I know he’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I thought it was for the best.” And then, through gentle sobs, he said he would tell me everything.

The light had faded completely, night replacing dusk. Ben switched on a lamp and we sat in its rosy glow, opposite each other, across the dining table. There was a pile of photographs between us, the same ones I had looked at earlier. I feigned surprise as he passed each one to me, telling me of its origins. He lingered on the photos of our wedding—telling me what an amazing day it had been, how special, explaining how beautiful I had looked—but then began to get upset. “I never stopped loving you, Christine,” he said. “You have to believe that. It was your illness. You had to go into that place, and, well… I couldn’t… I couldn’t bear it. I would’ve followed you. I would’ve done anything to get you back. Anything. But they… they wouldn’t… I couldn’t see you… they said it was for the best…”